Page 53 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

Despite her annoyance, Caro felt a stirring of pity. “I know.” It had not occurred to her that, in her absence, her father might transfer some of his animosity for his elder daughter onto his younger. “Has something…happened?”

That question earned her a scoffing, humorless laugh. “No. And nothing’s likely to, either. I—I had an offer, Caro. Last season. A perfectly respectable offer. But Papa says he can’t possibly be expected to manage on his own, with both Mama and Aunt in such poor health…as if he doesn’t encourage them to carry on so,” she added with another dismissive noise in her throat.

There was both petulance and pitilessness in those final words, but Caro could forgive them, for they were also honest. Papa did encourage his sister to fancy herself weak and helpless, and he had always been the first one to prompt Mama to take her tonic, until it had become quite clear she could no longer do without it. The prospect of being the spinster daughter in such a household, forever under Papa’s thumb, was indeed a daunting one. Caro herself had married one of the most enigmatic and feared men in England to avoid it.

“Tell me about the gentleman,” she prompted gently. “Is he kind? Is he handsome?” She marveled that her sister had said nothing of him in her letters. Had she—had she perhaps been forbidden to do so? All this time, had their father been telling her exactly what she might write?

“He’s not rich enough to satisfy Papa,” Catherine complained, then softened. “But yes, he is handsome. And so very sweet and gentle. Nothing like—well.” Flags of color appeared on her cheeks and she cut her gaze away.

Nothing like your husband, she had been about to say. Caro felt sure of it. But for once, she didn’t bristle at her sister’s ignorance. Cathy’s failings were not all her own fault.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Catherine went on with a sigh. “I’m no more likely to marry Mr. Parker than…than you are to buy me that bonnet.” She tossed her hand in the direction of the shop window.

Ordinarily, Caro would have dismissed those words as a transparent attempt to manipulate her. Today, however, she felt the gentle pressure of Maxim’s hands, drawing her into the water, urging her to try. Urging her to open her heart.

“Come on, then,” she said, curling her fingers around her sister’s arm to urge her toward the shop door. “Let’s have a closer look.”

A bell tinkled merrily above their heads as they stepped inside. “Welcome, Your Grace,” said the woman who kept the shop, dropping into a low curtsy. “I’m honored.”

Word of her changed status must have raced through the streets and alleyways of Brighton; Caro could not remember ever having visited the dressmaker’s shop before. Instead, Nan’s clever fingers had been reworking and disguising her old dresses, the better to make Caro’s pin money stretch.

But what if those pounds and pence hadn’t really been what her family needed from her most?

Cathy asked to see the bonnet in the window, and Caro occupied herself by looking around at the display of ribbons and trimmings. On the counter, she spied a finished gown of bronze-colored silk, the skirts covered by a delicate overlay of gold lace. It lay half in, half out of a large box; evidently the woman who ran the shop had been preparing it to be sent to a customer when they’d entered.

“Your Grace has excellent taste,” said the proprietress, stepping closer. Cathy was studying her reflection—or rather, the bonnet’s reflection—in a large mirror.

“It is a beautiful gown,” Caro said.

“Alas, the lady for whom it was made decided it did not suit.”

“Perhaps you should buy it, Caroline,” Cathy said, still preening.

The shopkeeper’s brows rose in a hopeful arc as she looked between the sisters. Lifting the dress from the box, she shook out the creases, sending sparks from the gold trim. “Very few adjustments,” she said, passing a critical eye over Caro’s figure. “Only a moment’s work for my seamstress.”

And before she knew what she was about, Caro found herself trying on the gown.

“Oh,” Cathy breathed when Caro stepped out of the curtained dressing room. “You must have it. I’ll—why, I’ll forgo the bonnet,” she insisted, untying its ribbons as she spoke. “Mr. Parker says a poke brim gets in the way of—well.” A blush lit her cheeks, and Caro caught a glimmering of who her sister might be, if she too could have a chance at love and happiness.

And in her sister’s gaze, she glimpsed her own reflection. She let herself imagine, just for the moment, walking into the dining room this evening wearing the bronze silk gown. The look in Maxim’s eyes…

She’d let happiness slip through her fingers once before. This time, she meant to hold on with both hands. Tightly enough that even her grasping father could not steal a drop. From anyone.

“I’ll take it,” she declared, with a twirl. “And the bonnet for my sister too. You may send the bill to the Duke of Hartwell.”

After the seamstress had made a few quick alterations to the gown, they left the shop, all smiles, their packages in Geoffrey’s capable arms. Caro fancied he looked pleased to at last be bearing such a burden for his mistress.

As they walked back in the direction of Royal Crescent, she tilted her head toward her sister. “I’m not yet sure how, but I believe things will work out,” she whispered. “I predict the brim on that bonnet will be the last obstacle to Mr. Parker’s affections.”

Chapter 17

Maxim brushed away Leclerc’s hands. Inheriting a dukedom had not, so far as he knew, impaired his ability to tie his own cravat.

After a little hum of disapproval, Leclerc turned his back and stepped toward the washbasin, as if unwilling to watch the unfolding—or perhaps, in this case, folding—disaster. “Will the arrival of the duchess’s family mean another delay in setting out for London?” he asked in French, speaking over his shoulder as he began to clean Maxim’s razor.

“Not a long one,” Maxim answered. A quirk of confusion darted over Leclerc’s brow, alerting Maxim to the fact that he’d spoken unthinkingly, automatically, in English. Quickly he switched to French. “I for one cannot bear to spend many more hours in her father’s company.”

There had been a moment, before their riding party had reached even as far as Hove, when Laughton’s inability to control his mount had promised a cliff’s-edge disaster, and Maxim had found himself envisioning the spectacular fall with barely disguised relish. In the end, of course, he’d intervened. Mostly to spare a tragic end for the poor horse.